The Lost Door (17 page)

He felt a little ashamed now. If he’d been more diligent, more alert, and not so easily swayed by nose candy he may have been more observant. This could not stand. Unfortunately he was alone and off duty—not much he could do now, especially if he wanted to track down DeMarcus. Couldn’t well do that if there was a raid going on. No… another night wouldn’t hurt anything right now, though next time he’d bring the motherfucking army.

The music would have been comforting if not for the atmosphere. Sex, drugs, and who knew what else was happening in this dingy basement of a bar. Big city shit in small town America. It was an ever expanding infection.

The room had a good number of people, more than upstairs. It explained why the parking lot was so full yet the bar had seemed relatively empty.

He spotted the two men he’d sat next to upstairs at a table. Fedora was either sleeping or stoned out of his mind, his friend was jerking off while watching the dancers on stage.
Odd way to spend your night,
Stavic thought.

He glided through the crowd, trying to blend. He spotted a man selling beer—bought one.

H
e’s a jovial fellow, or at least pretends to be,
Fred had said.
You see… he’s always smiling.

No one on this side of the room by that description. Only pervs and freaks as far as he could see.

The people here focused mostly on themselves. Stavic suspected a couple could be fucking in the middle of the room and no one would bat an eye.

He turned, looked left to right. Nothing! Where was the son of a bitch?

Stavic swiveled, checking every face. No one looked like the man he was looking for.

He was ready to grab a seat when a figure in a white suit descended the rickety stairs. Beneath the white suit was a pristine black button down shirt and bright red tie.

There’s something in that smile that’s unsettling. It’s not real. The smile… it’s a mask.
Stavic now understood what Fred meant.

DeMarcus scoped out the room and focused on four kids that had no business being in a place like this. Stavic watched as DeMarcus approached them, said a few words, then sat down.

He wasn’t sure what was going on but it couldn’t be good. Stavic made his way through the crowd. “You DeMarcus?” he asked with a firm tone.

DeMarcus looked up, his smile never wavering. “I am.”

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the kids exchange a look. “You’re interrupting a fabulous conversation I was just about to have with my new young friends here,” DeMarcus said.

“No,” interrupted one of the boys. “It’s cool. We can leave you—”

DeMarcus flashed him a look. “No,” he said with acid in his voice. He looked back.

“I’m Nicholas Stavic with the River Bend police.” He noticed DeMarcus’ eyes flick to the kids who were shifting away from him. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“How dull.”

The two men stared at each other, sizing each other up, DeMarcus’ smile never faltering. Stavic asked, “Are you aware of the two murders that have happened recently?”

“Murders? Why no! How sad for them.”

“Eviscerated. Cut end-to-end and gutted. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about it?”

“Tragic, and no.”

“No?”

“No. I’m a kitten. Wouldn’t hurt a mouse.”

“Cats eat mice.”

“Dog, then.” DeMarcus shifted in his seat.

“There were two murders back in 1960—”

“Are you implying I had something to do with a series of murders that happened more than fifty years ago?” His grin widened. “How old do you think I am?” DeMarcus’ eyed the kids again, only briefly. Stavic was pretty sure it was the girl with the dirty blond hair DeMarcus kept his eyes on. He decided to shift tactics and addressed them.

“You kids alright?”

They nodded but didn’t speak.

“This man threatening you at all?”

Head shakes.

“What are your names?”

“Em—” the dirty blonde started but was cut off by one of the boys.

“Don’t. You don’t have to tell him anything.”

A chair clattered to the floor, and the man in the fedora hurried up the stairs. His friend didn’t seem to notice.

Stavic looked back. The girl looked from him to her friend. “You sure about that?” asked Stavic. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-one,” said the boy.

“And you?” Stavic asked the girl.

“Same.”

“Got ID?” The kids looked at each other as if having a telepathic conversation. Stavic gave an “it doesn’t matter” head shake. “Why don’t you four get out of here.”

DeMarcus’ nonchalant tone dropped. “Don’t,” he warned the kids.

Stavic was startled as a rough pair of hands grabbed him. He looked back at the man in a red trucker cap. DeMarcus stood and said, “No. I think we’ll all go together.”

interlude

So close! She’d been so close and DeMarcus had to interfere. What was she going to do now that her poor David was in a coma?

Think!
she screamed to herself.
There has to be a way.

She wracked her brain, looking at the situation from all angles, trying to figure out her next step. This was unknown terrain, and she wasn’t sure what would happen should she ascend. She’d never heard of a time that a person divided. No… best not to sit it out and wait. She had to find a solution.

With her mind she reached out and searched. Maybe she could get those involved to interact somehow, to work together. But how? She was trapped.

Or was she?

She reached out and found Claire, represented by a forest green shimmer. While she couldn’t influence her directly, she could perceive her surroundings from a series of images and emotion. Claire was unconscious and being transported somewhere in an ambulance.

Next she focused on DeMarcus. He was angry about something and…

Emily!
she hollered. Yet she could do nothing to warn or help her. If DeMarcus knew what he had, and she suspected he did, would it be too late?

No. He has only half.

A shimmer appeared near DeMarcus, that of an unconscious man. She didn’t know him, nor did she know why she was seeing it. He must have been angry or scared because it was a muddied red. Could she help? She reached out and realized she could sooth him, his red turning to a soft blue. Interesting she could influence him like this. Was he in some way connected to the situation?

DeMarcus left with two others—another man and Emily—while three kids struggled to drag the strange man out of the woods. She watched this all with fascination. While she couldn’t do anything directly, maybe there was a way indirectly?

A third shimmer appeared near Willow Creek Bridge. Another man—this one with a brown aura—was passed out at the foot of the bridge. She didn’t know him either.

Who were these unknown players?

She watched as they all converged at the hospital, where David was.

Where she was.

Too many questions, too many unknowns. She was seeing them for a reason, and she was confident it wasn’t a coincidence they were being drawn together. They had a unified purpose, though of what she didn’t know.

And then she discovered she could go into their memories and began to explore, started to see the pattern. She followed the trail in each of their memories and found the catalyst, the one event that tied them all together, and it shocked her. Never in a million years would she have attributed it to her and David and that terrible night. She had to make them see and understand.

Lilly connected them all, chose the relevant memories, and began to share.

note from author

How are you enjoying
The Lost Door
so far? If you’ve made it this far I’m going to assume its holding your interest.

If you would like to support my work please consider purchasing a copy for $1.99 at Smashwords.com using the coupon code
RQ64Q
.
(This code expires December 31, 2015.) That’s down from the $3.99 retail price… a steal! (See what I did there? Yeah… I’m funny.)

Thank you again, and back to the story.

II

past

seven

(1957)

Willem sat at the kitchen table playing with his toy soldiers. Elliott was in his room studying, and Sammy was in the living room watching
Howdy Doody.
While their mother didn’t seem to like the show all that much she put up with it to spend time with “her baby”.

The sun was setting casting the world in a deep orange, and a nice evening breeze came through the screen door. The weatherman was predicting storms tonight, but if one was headed their way Willem couldn’t tell. The sky had few clouds and the smell of impending rain had yet to materialize.

The engine of a car moved along the house, its brakes squeaking into the back. A minute later his father stepped through the door, the spring squeaking as it was pulled open. Although his back was to the door Willem could sense his father’s hesitation, his eyes boring into him.

He entered without a word, the door slamming shut behind. He walked past Willem and tossed his red trucker cap onto the table. He never looked at his son—seemed to ignore him—and went to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, popped the top and drank.

The distance between the two had started gradually several years ago and had escalated to where they barely spoke. Willem didn’t know why and often wondered what’d he’d done wrong to anger him so.

Willem had been trying to work up the courage to ask his father about it, but the animosity he felt radiating from his old man filled him with terror. He’d talked to Elliott and his mother about it but both told him the same thing: it’s your father, not you. Don’t read too much into it; it’s been hard at work for him.

He didn’t buy it.

He’d been sitting here waiting and going over and over in his head what he would say when his father got home. How to broach the subject?

Kids cheered and laughed in the background, Sammy giggling madly.

It was now or never.

He opened his mouth yet no words came out.

Blank! His mind was blank! What was it he was going to say? All the words he’d planned, all the positive memories he’d intended to share gone.

“What?”

Willem looked up and saw his father staring at him, bottle hovering an inch from his mouth.

“Either shut that mouth or say something.”

Willem closed it.

Pfft!
The sound whistled between his father’s lips. The sound of disappointment. The sound of knowing.

Another gulp of beer and Mr. Amberson headed out of the room.

Say something!
his mind cried.
Stop him!

“Why—”

His father stopped, whipped his head around. The movement was so sudden and unexpected it stopped the words momentarily.

Tears bubbled up. “Why don’t you like me?” He hated the meekness of his voice. He felt like a baby.

For a long moment his father stared at him, judging him, challenging him. Willem refused to break eye contact even to wipe away tears. His father turned fully and faced him.

“What did I do wrong?” Willem asked.

The hardened expression on his father’s face refused to soften—he just stared.

“Please dad please! Tell me what I did!”

Mr. Amberson stepped toward him, a mask of hatred and distrust.

“Whatever it is I didn’t mean to! Whatever I did was an accident! I swear! Just please stop being mad at me!”

A few more steps and now he was standing next to him, the kitchen table a dividing line. Willem stared up at his father, tears flowing freely. He snorted back snot, his mouth contorting to try and stem the emotional outburst.

Laughter from the television in the other room felt like taunts.

His father crouched, came down to eye level.

He’s sorry!
his mind screamed.
He wants a hug! It wasn’t me at all! I love you dad!

Willem leapt from the chair and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck, hugging him as tightly as he could. He felt his father move, the sound of the beer bottle being put on the table.

He’s going to hug me! Thankyouthankyouthankyou!

He’d missed the closeness he’d once had with his father, had felt a part of him had been taken away. But now his father was finally going to embrace him, let bygones be bygones, wrap his arm around him and tell him it was all going to be alright.

Instead he felt his father’s hands grab his arms and pull them away from his neck.

No! Nonono! Hold onto him! Don’t let him go!

But he couldn’t. The crushing hold his father had weakened him; he couldn’t hold on. Mr. Amberson pulled Willem’s arms away, pushed them to his sides, and held him at arm’s length.